Page 68 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

A minute later, we’re tangled up together, my face between his thighs, his between mine.

We are loud and messy. Slurps and sucks fill the air and mix with his playlist of Brit-pop sex tunes that make me even hotter for him.

Make me hot and bothered and thrilled to have him in my life.

In my head.

And, as we go to town on each other’s bodies, I’m pretty sure he’s in my heart too.

But soon, he’ll be gone for good.

All I can do is enjoy every second of these last few wonderful nights.

Pleasure cascades down my spine, coils in my belly. My legs shake, and I let him fall from my mouth, grunting out, “Coming...”

I’m seeing stars, trembling all over, and I want to give TJ the same thing. I’m right back on his dick before the aftershocks have finished.

I’m on it, loving it, sucking, and wishing this could happen next week, next month, maybe even next year.

But he’ll be gone in less than two days.

Some stories just play out that way.

24

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING PAGES

Jude

I’m not counting down.

There’s no point.

Life goes on. But it’s Thursday evening, and TJ’s flight departs tomorrow. And even though I’m secretly hoping it’s delayed another day and that we get a reprieve, I’m also realistic enough to know that it won’t happen.

I rearranged my schedule at An Open Book, taking shifts on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday so I could spend this last night with him.

We go to The Magpie, settle in with a beer, and just like that first night, we talk. Even with the looming departure, the connection between us is still strong. TJ cares about my dreams and I care about his too.

“Robots and scientists... Does it have a name yet?” TJ asks.

“It has a working title. I don’t love it though.Machine Love.”

“Yeah, that’s a little cringe-y. But I say this as someone who has a cringe-y working title for his book.”

“You still won’t tell me what that is?”

“It’s bad, Jude. It needs a good name. Just likeMachine Lovedoes.”

“I know. Hopefully, the writer will change it,” I say. “But you know how writer types can be. So pig-headed.”

“Writers are the worst. Well, after actors,” he says. “You still love the show, though?”

“I do. We started shooting today, and it was... everything. You know what I mean? It makes me feel alive. Energized. It makes me feel like I’ve found myself.”

“The artistic impulse,” he says, getting me completely. “Youhaveto create.”

“Ido.Youdo.” I gesture to the man across from me. The man who’s become a friend, a lover, and the human I’ll miss more than I imagined I could miss a person. And this shared passion is such a big part of our connection that I almost want to ask if we could stay in touch. If we could be the actor and the writer who have an international friendship. That could happen, surely.